Page 12 of The Wild Card

Fairy lights along the ceiling, my grandmother’s quilt on the bed, the plants on the windowsill—assuming I can keep them alive, and my colorful Persian rug to cover the boring carpet.

“I can work with this,” I say, mostly to myself.

Gavin helps me unload the last of the boxes, and then he pulls Crew aside in the hallway. He thinks he’s being subtle. He’s not.

“Hey. A word.”

I watch them from my doorway, pretending to organize my books. Gavin’s got his arms crossed, chin lifted, full intimidation mode. Crew just stands there, expression unreadable.

“You hurt my sister,” Gavin says, voice low, “and I will make your life hell. We clear?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Crew says, “Crystal.” That’s it. One word. No defensiveness, no posturing. Just acknowledgment.

Gavin seems thrown by the lack of pushback. He nods once, stiffly, then turns to find me watching.

“I’m heading out.” He crosses to give me a hug, squeezing too tight. “You sure about this, Em? Living with some guy you just met?”

“We’ve been over this, Gav. I literally couldn’t be safer.”

“That’s not—” He sighs. “Just call me if anything feels off, okay? Anything.”

“I will.”

He gives Crew one last look—somewhere between warning and reluctant acceptance—and then he’s gone.

The apartment feels different without Gavin’s anxious energy filling it up. Quieter. Calmer, maybe.

Crew is standing by the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets. “I’ll let you get settled.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate. “And thanks for, um, not punching my brother. I know he can be a lot.”

Something flickers across Crew’s face. Almost a smile, but not quite. “He cares about you. Can’t fault him for that.”

And then he disappears into his room, and I’m alone with six boxes and a blank canvas of a bedroom.

Time to make this place mine.

* * *

Three hours later, my room looks like me.

Fairy lights strung along the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, cheerful glow. My grandmother’s quilt draped over the bed, all patchwork colors and soft cotton. The plants lined up on the windowsill—a snake plant, and a succulent I’ve named Harold. My books stacked on the nightstand because I haven’t figured out shelving yet. The muted pink and mint colors of Persian rug softening the floor.

It’s not perfect. But it’s mine.

I step back to admire my work and nearly trip over a box I haven’t unpacked yet. Typical.

“You, um…”

I spin around. Crew is standing in my doorway, and there’s an expression on his face I can’t quite read. His eyes move slowly across the room—the lights, the colors, the controlled chaos I’ve created—and I swear I see his left eye twitch.

“Too much?” I ask.

“No.” The word comes out slightly strangled. “It’s… a lot.”

“Is that bad?”